Placed On This Isthmus Of A Middle

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing; Drink Deep, Or Taste Not The Pierian Spring.

The Race By Vigour, Not By Vaunts, Is Won.

Who Dare To Love Their Country, And Be Poor.

There Is A Certain Majesty In Simplicity Which Is Far Above All The Quaintness Of Wit.